5
The kitchen had always been Beatrice's safe haven. It had been that way for as long as she could remember. Whenever she was feeling down, angry or just plain bored, she could throw on an apron, whip a few ingredients together and she'd feel her mood change instantly. And ever since Fred had come through and butchered a perfectly good batter, something that she considered to be sacrilegious, she had been itching to get in there and work away some of the stress.
So that's just what she did. It was getting just on sundown when she threw on her favorite purple flower apron, pulled the ingredients from the cupboards and got to work. She decided she was going to make chocolate peanut butter brownies. Not only did she love everything peanut butter, but they were also a favorite of her grandson's and since he was coming home later that night, she figured that it would be the perfect welcome back treat – even if he had only been gone for three days.
As she combined the ingredients and began to stir, something just wasn't right. She tried to cream the butter and sugar, but it came out lumpy. She tried to whip the peanut butter, but it refused to fluff. And to top it all off, she just couldn't remember what temperature she needed the oven on. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Beatrice was an alien in her own kitchen.
It was her third failed attempt at creaming the butter when she finally gave up, throwing the mixing bowl into the sink with a clang. This loud noise only served to rattle Buzz and send Sylvester flying from the chair in a panic, but right then, she didn't care. She was far more worried about her sudden inability to bake. It was like losing one's super powers; or so she assumed.
She slumped onto the chair, her head held in her hands, trying not to panic. Really, she knew exactly what the issue was. She was distracted, as simple as that. Every time she tried to think of something, anything, her thoughts were pulled back to the passion fruit pie and the idea that someone had been trying to kill her.
And then, as this thought crossed her mind, she shook her head telling herself to snap from it. It wasn't poison, just an allergic reaction, but then she'd counter that, thinking of the bizarre circumstances around his death and how it just had to be poison. And so, she would start the process all over again. It was a never-ending cycle that threatened to drive her crazy.
And that's just what she thought was going to happen, until she was distracted, thankfully, from very loud and frantic knocking coming from the front door.
Beatrice hurried to the door, wondering who could be visiting in such a panic. At the rate they were hammering on the door, the damn thing was bound to fly right off the hinges at any moment.
She sighed to herself when she looked through the peep-hole, seeing Stella on the other side. She should have known.
"You hear the news?" Stella asked, all but shrieking as she pushed past Beatrice. Like a whirlwind, she rushed into the house, leaving a path of destruction behind. Well not really, but to Beatrice that was the way it always felt with Stella. She was so prone to drama and over-the-top charades that mole hills turned to mountains in the blink of an eye.
"Hello to you too," Beatrice said jokingly as she closed the door and followed her friend inside.
"I'm sorry, it's just – were you baking?" She asked, now heading into the kitchen. "I'm positively starved! What did you make me?"
"Try three batches of goo and unwhipped peanut butter,' Beatrice sighed as she followed Stella into the kitchen. She made sure to scoop up Sylvester as she did. Sometimes the loud screeches of Stella had the tendency to upset the poor cat.
"Sounds rather unappetizing to be honest. And looks that way too," Stella mused as she leaned over the sink, poking at the mixture still in the bowl. "What happened?"
"I don't know. I'm just distracted. What with everything that's been going on. Not to mention that I came home earlier to find --"
"Oh!" Stella suddenly burst out, just about jumping from her skin. "I'm sorry darling, but I just remembered why I came over here in such a hurry."
"That's fine," Beatrice assured her, picking up the mixing bowl and proceeding to clean it. The fact that she hadn't cleaned it straight away was another indication as to how distracted Beatrice was. She never left a mess behind, ever. That just wasn't good baking. "Go on."
"It turns out that you were right! It wasn't an allergic reaction that that gorgeous man you were on the date with had. He had been poisoned!" She beamed with delight, as if she was sharing good news. Beatrice knew that she was just happy to be on the forefront of the drama scene. Stella did love her drama.
"What? How do you know that?" She didn't know why she asked. Beatrice knew exactly how Stella knew what she did. There was really only the one way.
Stella tried to hide a smirk, examining her nails as she did. "I happen to have good word from the man who did the autopsy."
"Good Lord," Beatrice said with her eyebrow arched. "You mean you slept with him?" If she had said that to anyone else, literally anyone else, then it would have come off as an insult, but to Stella, it was purely a matter of fact.
"Maybe, maybe not," Stella responded, the smile on her face more than answer enough. "My point is, you were right. You said that that pie was intended for you?"
Beatrice felt her stomach sink as the point hit home. So she had been right all along, someone had tried to poison her. The only reassurance she could find in what was otherwise terrible news, was that at least now she knew. No more sitting around and wondering. It was time for Beatrice to get her act together and solve this case. Before it was too late.
"Yes, it's what I order all the time, but the waitress was new and they got the order mixed up... that could have been me dead on the floor." It was a chilling thought, but one that she couldn't waste her time pondering. There was no time for that.
Stella clasped her hand over her mouth in shock. "Oh Beatrice, who would want you dead?"
Beatrice shrugged, "I don't know. I've always tried to be a good person. I made my fair share of mistakes, but this is something else." There was one other thing of course. One that she wasn't so sure that she should be sharing with Stella.
"We have to call the cops! We have to get you safe! We have to barricade the entire house and throw away the key until --"
"I don't think that's going to be necessary," Beatrice said, trying to calm her friend down. She'd finished with the mixing bowl now, bending over to put it away in the cupboard.
"And why exactly not?" Stella asked, crossing her arms as she arched an eyebrow.
Beatrice picked up a sponge and began to casually wipe down the benches. "Oh no reason, just that ah... Fred came to visit me earlier."
"What?!" Stella screeched. Sylvester, who had been napping on a chair, sprung to his feet and leaped away in a matter of seconds; darting from the room and out of sight. "What did he want?! What did he say?!"
"Nothing interesting. Just that he might... want me back." She continued to wipe down the countertops, trying to keep the conversation as rational as possible; a tall order when dealing with Stella.
"Or he wants you dead!"
"After all these years, you'd think he wouldn't have that much of a grudge against me. At least, not enough to try and kill me." Beatrice had of course been thinking about this long before Stella came over. She was all about planning and if it did turn out that poison was to blame, which it now was, she wanted a backup plan. As luck would have it, she had one.
"Well what then? I have to say, you're acting very calm considering the circumstances," Stella was pacing back and forth now, waving her hand in front of her face as if to cool herself down.
"Think about this logically. If it was Fred, he didn't poison my food. How could he have? He would have needed help."
"So what, the waitress?" Stella asked, catching on.
"Exactly. Or the chef. One of them must be working with him. We find out who and why, we get the evidence and then we call the cops. We don't want to call them too early and scare him away otherwise he'll never get caught." Bea
trice crossed her arms, a smug smile on her face. For a lonely housewife, she really was quite the detective.
Stella was nodding now and Beatrice could see the wheels turning in her brain processing the idea, slowly coming to the conclusion that it was indeed the best plan. Of course, that's all it was right now, a plan. Because at the end of the day Beatrice still had to find out what a chef, a waitress and her husband's brother all had in common. If anything at all.
6
Beatrice was naturally in a pretty lousy mood. Not only had she just been told that indeed someone had tried to poison her, but she also couldn’t bake at the moment to save her life. As funny as it may sound, it was actually her inability to bake that affected her the most.
The worst part was that usually when she felt this way, she would bake, but that wasn’t really an option. She had Stella in her house, a kitchen full of baking utensils, and mounds of gossip to get through. And yet it was all going to be for nothing.
“So…” Stella began, drumming her long manicured fingernails on the kitchen countertop. “What now?”
It was a poignant question. Even without the third member of the Cookie Club present, it was still an odd feeling to be sitting around the kitchen, or indeed anywhere in the house, without some sort of sweet treat.
“I really don’t know,” Beatrice admitted, sighing. “Maybe we should just go out and buy a cake?” The words were like acid in her mouth, and yet she knew it was the only option at this point. What had her life become?
Stella nodded solemnly. Beatrice knew that the only reason she wanted a sweet was because she was in the mood for a glass of champagne. And to Stella, you couldn’t really drink champagne without having a baked good to dig into as that would be madness and a clear indication of alcoholism.
So, with no other choice, the two ladies piled into Beatrice’s car and headed into town.
Beatrice’s bakery was unfortunately closed today. As a result, they had no choice but to go to her competitor: ‘Little Miss Baked Goods.’ Little Miss was a bakery that was literally across the road from Beatrice’s. It was the ying to her yang. Never as busy as her bakery was, with treats that were nowhere near as delicious, yet it still did constant business and had a nasty habit of drawing crowds away from Beatrice.
“Helloooooo,” Little Miss herself cooed as Beatrice and Stella walked through the door. “If it isn’t the famous Mrs. Fletcher… Ms. Fletcher, sorry. Fancy seeing you in my little store.”
Little Miss was the archenemies that would be expected in a baked goods war. She was roughly the same age as Beatrice, and even looked a little similar. The main difference was in her disposition. She was always sickeningly sweet, with big rosy cheeks and a toothy smile, but it was the fakeness that got to Beatrice. She knew that this wasn’t the real Little Miss, and it was all just a show for the customers.
“Hello, Little Miss,” Beatrice said in a calm fashion as she entered the store. “How are you today?”
“Positively delightful! Especially with your doors closed today. I tell you, the number of customers I’ve had today is near criminal,” she beamed over the counter. Her voice had a way of carrying that was both high pitched and irritating.
“That’s nice,” Beatrice said grimacing. She wished that she had been able to open today, but with everything that was going on she really didn’t have the time. The only solace she took was in knowing that she sold a superior product. There wasn’t a soul alive that would argue that.
“So, what can I do for you today?” Little Miss asked, all smiles as she watched Beatrice approach the counter.
Beatrice bent over, looking at the desserts in the display case. The whole thing was a cut and copy version of her bakery. From the names of the goods to the goods themselves. This store had no originality, but what was worse was that it seemed proud of the fact.
“Just the sponge cake, thank you,” Beatrice said, pointing to a particularly bland and flat looking sponge cake. “Is that OK with you?” She asked Stella who had remained by the door; refusing to enter the establishment any more than she had to.
“Fine by me. As long as we get out of here as soon as possible. The whole place gives me the creeps.” She gave an exaggerated shudder as she rubbed at her own arms, as if trying to warm herself up.
“Excellent choice!” Little Miss beamed. “I’ve been playing around with the recipe for the last few weeks. I think you’ll find it… to your taste...” Her voice had lost that high-pitched carry, dropping on the word ‘taste.’ It was menacing and Beatrice didn’t like the sound of it one bit.
“Ah thanks,” she said, paying for and taking the cake. “Have a nice day, Little Miss,” she offered as she and Stella hurried from the store.
“Oh, you too. And please, feel free to close any time.” Her voice carried from out the store, as if chasing the two ladies down the street.
“Well that was creepy,” Stella finally said when they were well away from the bakery. “Why did you make me go in there? You know I hate that woman.”
“You’re the one that wanted something to eat,” Beatrice reminded her. “And did you hear the way she said ‘taste’ to me? Did it sound odd to you?” She asked as they crossed the street to her parked car.
“The whole thing was odd darling. Now come on, I’m starved.”
–
“That little thief!” Beatrice all but shouted through a mouthful of sponge cake. “That little thief!”
The two ladies had made their way home from the bakery, poured themselves a glass of champagne and cut into their freshly bought sponge cake. The moment that the cake touched Beatrice’s tongue, she knew that something was amiss. And a second later, as it rested against her pallet, she was sure of it.
It was subtle, and near unnoticeable, but she didn’t doubt for one second that this was her recipe.
“I ought to go down there right now and give it to her,” Beatrice spat as the sponge cake fell from her mouth and back onto the plate. “The nerve or her. And serving it to me so nonchalantly. Did she really not think that I would notice?”
“Oh, I’m sure she hoped you would,” Stella mused as she chewed her piece, not seeming to care at all that the recipe was stolen. “But really, I think you’re making too much of this.”
“Too much of this? How would you feel if… if… if she came into your house and stole away one of your men?” Beatrice protested. It took her a few goes to think of something that could be stolen from Stella, and really that was the only logical conclusion.
“Darling, please,” Stella said, giving her a look that implied such a concept was utterly ridiculous. “And besides, this doesn’t taste anything like yours. Yours is much better. Anyone would agree.” And yet she still took another bite, seeming to delight in the cake.
Beatrice prod at the flat looking cake on the counter, sneering at it as if it were a dead rodent that had found its way into her kitchen. “Well of course mine is better. This cake has the refinement of a bull in a china shop, but it’s the principle.”
Beatrice didn’t doubt for a second that indeed this was her recipe. She could taste the hint of extract that was mixed inside, and there was no doubt that a drop of sunflower oil had been added too. Both a part of her design.
The only solace she could take was in the fact that hers was still so much better. Her cake was as light as a marshmallow, and crumble like sand once bitten into. This piece of garbage was flat like an old pillow and sticky rather than soft. An abomination if there ever was one.
“There is one simple thing you can do you know? To solve this problem?” Stella mused as she sipped her wine glass.
“Yeah and what’s that?” Beatrice sighed, collapsing into the seat.
“Start baking again of course. If I have to eat sub-par cake one more time I’ll have to start buying stronger liquor.”
“I can’t,” Beatrice moaned. “I tried, remember? The gift is gone and I don’t know when it will come back, if ever. Maybe I should just march d
own to Little Miss Bakery and hand over my apron, announce her the winner and live the rest of my life as a reclusive cat lady.” She only had one cat of course, but she could buy more. She was single, there was no need for Sylvester to be the only cat.
“Well I was thinking about that actually – not the cat lady thing. Your lost talent. I think I may know a way to solve it.” There was a wicked smile on her face now that Beatrice did not like one bit, and the way her eyebrows danced maniacally only added to the worry.
“What..?” Beatrice asked cautiously.
“I think you need to get back into the dating game again – ah, before you say anything. I don’t want you using your last date as an excuse. That was a freak accident. You can’t hold all dating accountable for that little misstep.”
“Little misstep? My date ended up dead, in case you forgot?” She was, quite frankly shocked that Stella was even mentioning the idea of dating to her. Sure, Stella thought that one night spent in the arms of a man was a cure for almost anything, but she should have known better when it came to Beatrice. “And besides. Where am I going to meet these mystery men? Unlike you I can’t walk onto the street, hold my hand up and have men flock to me.”
Case of the Passion Fruit Poisoning Page 3